


This Used to be my Playground

by Xerxia



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Reunited and It Feels So Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 12:03:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12704622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xerxia/pseuds/Xerxia
Summary: After an alcohol-fuelled confession destroys his closest friendship, Peeta Mellark discovers that you can't hold on to the past.





	This Used to be my Playground

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the charity fundraiser More Stories to Save Lives (ms2sl.com), in support of a cure for DIPG and other children's cancers. This story was based on a Tumblr prompt (I still go to our old childhood clubhouse to calm down and you show up one day and I thought you had forgotten about this place and kinda our whole friendship) and was heavily influenced by Madonna's 90s power ballad of the same name. Rated M for coarse language and adult situations.

With gratitude to @akai-echo for the utterly gorgeous banner.

[](https://78.media.tumblr.com/af04360a3d81bbb58e33ca97dbec2b43/tumblr_inline_oskhpgxikm1sd8t5x_1280.jpg)

 

The air is crisp and fragrant with pine and woodsmoke as I walk back to the bakery. Winter is definitely coming. And it reminds me that it's been nearly three months since I opened. Nearly three months since the best and worst day of my life.

 

I've gotten into a comfortable routine. Rise early, bake, open the store. Work the front shop until my employees arrive, then head back to the kitchen to bake, clean and work on special orders, or back to my small office to reconcile invoices and do paperwork. Close the front shop, do all of the prep work for the following morning, clean some more, then go home to bed. It's exhausting, but it keeps my mind occupied. Keeps me from wallowing. From giving in to the loneliness.

 

It's mid afternoon, and I'm heading back after making the bank deposit. One thing my father taught me was to make the deposit at a different time every day. “Don't let the bad guys learn your schedule, Peeta,” he'd advised, one among many pearls of wisdom he passed along before I lost him. I miss him every day. 

 

When I reach the bakery, I can't help but pause out front. It truly is beautiful, sitting proudly on the corner of Merchant and Main, huge windows sparkling in the afternoon sun. And above the door, my favourite part. A replica of the sign that hung over my father’s bakery when I was growing up.  _ Mellark’s _ , in swoopy script, blue with gold highlighting. Hand-painted by me, though it was her idea. 

 

And just like that, the tenuous grip I'm keeping on my emotions slips. 

 

My hands curl around the wrought iron railing by the door and I hold on tight, breathing slowly and deeply until I feel like I can go on. 

 

The bell over the door tinkles musically but Clove, the teenager I hired to cover the counter Saturdays and Sundays, doesn't even look up. She's slumped by the register, engrossed in her phone, thumbs moving furiously over the screen. It takes two loud throat-clearings before she glances up. “Oh, uh, hey Mr. M.,” she stammers, sliding the phone smoothly into her jeans pocket. I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes. Though she’s only a decade younger than my own twenty-six years, she makes me feel like I’m eighty. Or maybe it’s life that makes me feel eighty.

 

“Clove,” I say gently, trying not to sound like a patronizing old guy. “We’ve talked about the phone at work.” Her frown suggests I haven’t entirely succeeded in keeping my tone friendly.

 

“It’s been dead all afternoon,” she whines. “Only one person came in the whole time you were gone.” I was gone all of twenty minutes, but I don't bother pointing that out. 

 

Before I can continue discussing work etiquette with my young charge, the bell again signals a visitor. And I smile genuinely when I see that it’s old Ms. Sae. She opens her arms wide and I don’t hesitate to walk into them.

 

Ms. Sae is a fixture in Panem, she knows everybody, and has babysat practically everyone in town at one point or another. “You're working too hard, my boy,” she says, one weathered hand patting my cheek. “And you're too thin.” I laugh softly and guide her over to the counter. 

 

We chat while I gather loaves of the hearty molasses bread I know she favours, and a few cookies for her to take home to her little granddaughter. She fusses when I again refuse her money, reminding me as she always does that this is a business, not a charity. But as I turn to walk her to the door she grabs my hand. “It's going to be okay,” she says seriously. “You'll fix it.”

 

I haven't told anyone what happened, have kept myself so busy that even our friends haven't noticed. But there's no hiding anything from Sae. For just a moment I feel the mask slip, and Sae again pulls me into a hug. “I don't think I can, Sae,” I whisper, and she squeezes me tighter. 

 

I wave as Sae hobbles down the sidewalk, and when I finally turn back, Clove is on her phone again. I sigh. I just don’t have the energy to deal with her today. And she’s right, it’s slow. It’ll be fine.

 

I grab a cloth and wipe down the few tables by the giant south-facing window. The perfect place to sit with your coffee and pastry and watch the world stream by. The tables, and the expensive European coffee maker, were Katniss’s idea. 

 

Katniss Everdeen. My erstwhile best friend.

 

She’s everywhere in my bakery, absolutely unavoidable. From the black-and-white checkered linoleum she picked out, to the soft yellow walls she helped me paint, from the light fixtures we playfully argued about until finally I capitulated and ordered the ones she preferred (they were the right choice, in the end) to the logo I designed and she insisted had to appear on the boxes and bags.

 

My throat threatens to close; I toss the cloth in the little prep sink as I escape through the swinging doors to the kitchen. Clove doesn’t even glance up. There’s nothing left to do in the kitchen before closing, so I head back to my small office. I’m sure there are purchase orders I can work on.

 

But in the silence of the small room, the very room where my nightmare began, my mind wanders back to that night.

 

It was opening day for my bakery. The biggest day of my life. We’d spent the entire day working side by side, Katniss and I. Hell, we’d been side by side for months, she helped me with virtually every aspect of opening my business. It simply wouldn’t have happened without her. 

 

I met Katniss in kindergarten, and by the time we turned twelve we were best friends, absolutely inseparable. And so it continued, for more than a decade. We did absolutely everything together, spoke every single day. Shared almost everything. Two pieces of one entity. 

 

She encouraged me to follow my dream of opening a bakery, like the one my father owned when we were growing up. She helped me navigate the incredible amount of paperwork required to open a business. Helped me with the bank, helped me choose the building. Held my hand while I signed the lease. Had a say in virtually every piece of the decor. 

 

And that day, my opening day, was truly incredible. We were completely in sync, seamless. Everything went right, it felt like the entire town came out to shop in the bakery that day. I was on top of the world. And each person who shook my hand also shook Katniss’s. It really seemed like the bakery - while my childhood dream - was ours in every way.

 

After the door was locked behind the last customer, after the ovens were shut off and the counters wiped down, Katniss pulled out a bottle of champagne. I grabbed the cheese buns I’d set aside, hidden just for her. We settled onto the little couch she insisted I put in my office, her head on my shoulder, my arm wrapped snugly around her. We passed the bottle back and forth, reliving the best moments of the day, laughing together. It was heaven. In that moment, I truly felt invincible. Everything in my life was perfect.

 

Well, almost everything.

 

Flushed with champagne and success, it slipped out. The confession I’d been holding onto for a decade.

 

I want to blame the alcohol, but that really wasn’t it. In that moment, warm and content with the woman I have always loved curled in my arms, it was just too easy for my mind to believe that it was real, that she felt the same.

 

She didn’t.

 

The scraping of a chair against linoleum in the front shop pulls me from my reverie, and I shake away the haze. I’ve relived that moment over and over in the nearly three months since it happened. Berated myself, thought of a thousand ways I should have done things differently. But it doesn’t matter. Because Katniss bolted from the bakery that night, horror in her silver eyes.

 

And I haven’t seen or heard from her since. 

 

Two decades of friendship, along with every version of the future I’d ever dared to dream of, destroyed by one heartfelt but unrequited confession.

 

I force myself to concentrate on my paperwork, and get into a groove. Before I know it, Clove is tapping on my half-open door. “Mr. M? Do you want me to lock the front door?” Four o’clock already. I nod, and give her a grateful smile. At least being buried in her phone means she’s keeping track of the time. “Here’s that order from earlier,” she says, tossing a form on my desk before sauntering away. I drop my head into my hands. A cake order, something I would have been working on if she’d bothered to tell me earlier. Well I guess I know what I’ll be spending my Saturday night doing now. At some point I’m going to have to accept that Clove might not be the right person for this job.

 

I'm tempted to ignore the paper. But I look anyway, in case it's for tomorrow. 

 

And then immediately wish I hadn't. 

 

_ Engagement cake for K. Everdeen. _

 

It's like being punched in the gut, the pain is so heavy, so intense. Katniss. My best friend, my closest confident, the centre of my world up until three months ago. 

 

The only woman I've ever loved. 

 

And now, apparently, a complete stranger.

 

I read the form three, four times. Run my finger over her signature, the slashes and loops as familiar to me as my own. 

 

The only reason she'd order this from  _ me _ , is to tell me in no uncertain terms that she's moved forward with her life, without me. She doesn't need me. 

 

Nobody does. 

 

Anger and disgust battle with the humiliation and pain that’s been ever-present for three long months. I need to get away, take a long walk, clear my head before I lose it again. 

 

Ovens tripled checked and alarm set, I head out into the evening. There are too many people wandering around Panem, enjoying the crisp weather and Christmas displays just beginning to pop up in the storefronts around town. It all feels like it’s pressing down on me, all of those fake smiles and pitying looks, judging me for my inability to just  _ let go _ . So I head for the outskirts of town, for the woods. For the calm serenity I know is there.

 

I find myself wandering a path I haven’t walked in a very long time. A path that, despite my absence, is still clear, guiding me into the past. 

 

As I crest the final hill and a little cabin appears, I realize I’ve been holding my breath. I half expected it to be gone. Our secret place, mine and Katniss’s. A long-abandoned hunting shack, still standing. We played here as children, hid here as adolescents. We spent so many nights in our teens and early twenties huddled here together; laughing, crying, living. Our friendship was, in many ways, solidified within its four walls. 

 

It’s also the place where everything shifted for me, where I first noticed Katniss wasn’t just one of the guys. Where I first caught a glimpse of her changing body under a rain-soaked white t-shirt, a glimpse that was the starting point of so many of my adolescent fantasies. But it was more than that. It’s the place where I started dreaming about being with Katniss, for real. How many nights did I spend here with her in my arms, imagining that we’d run away together, that this was a little home we’d made for ourselves. Just her and me.

 

I approach the shack with a kind of breathless reverence, as if it’ll disappear if I’m too bold, taking with it the ghosts of my happiness.

 

It's been nearly three years since I last set foot in here. Once we were grown, had our own apartments and could legally consume alcohol, there didn't seem to be any need for it. But it hasn’t changed, not one bit. Same stone fireplace. Same wavy glass windows. Same thrill of possibility, before I remember that door has closed.

 

There’s a small woodpile beside the fireplace. Nostalgia, rather than the cold, prompts me to stack some of it on the hearth. An old flint rests on the mantel, exactly where Katniss always left it. 

 

The dry wood catches quickly, filling the small space with warmth and golden light. When I put the flint away I run my fingers over the single word carved into the rough wooden mantel.  _ Everlark _ . My name and hers, combined. I remember when she put it there. We were seventeen then. That night, we'd lain side by side, drinking a bottle of rye she'd pilfered from her uncle Haymitch and laughing about celebrity ship names. When she decided we needed one of our own my heart swelled. 

 

Even then I'd loved her. 

 

I settle in front of the hearth and watch the flames. Let my mind wander. I can’t help but remember all of the times my younger self had come here to escape my mother or my brothers. How Katniss always had an uncanny knack for knowing that I needed her, even if I hadn’t called. She’d show up, as if summoned by my heart. The bond between us strong enough to transcend words.

 

“I thought you'd forgotten about this place.” For a moment, I almost think it's the melancholy getting to me, that I'm hearing things. But I'm not. The soft, sultry voice of my former best friend, of the woman I'd considered my soulmate, filters through the open door. 

 

I chance a glance at her for the first time in eighty-eight days, and immediately wish I hadn't. The pain in my heart is like a spear, white-hot and horrible. It nearly takes my breath away. 

 

I turn my eyes resolutely to the fire. “I thought you'd forgotten about our friendship,” I say, letting anger disguise my pain. Behind me she inhales sharply, and I close my eyes.

 

I expect her to run, she always runs. So I startle when instead she kneels beside me. “I'm sorry, Peeta,” she says simply, and the pain in her voice surprises me. Wounds me. I have to bite my lip to stop myself from begging her forgiveness for hurting her somehow, because her pain could only be my fault. “I know I've treated you that way,” she continues. “But I could never forget us.”

 

I’ve spent eighty-eight days thinking about this moment. Eighty-eight days planning what I would say, how I would react to whatever she said. Eighty-eight days of mentally begging and pleading, of screaming and lashing out. Eighty-eight nights of heartbreak. And yet, now that the moment is here, my mind is a blank slate. I have nothing to say.

 

She’s so close to me, mere inches between us, but never has the gulf felt wider. Yet even still, in spite of the roaring pain, my body reacts as it always does to her presence. My heart rate slows, my clenched fists start to relax. She has always been balm to my woes. The one who held me and comforted me in my low points, cheered me and celebrated in the high spots. The one I thought would be by my side forever. And, despite the anguish, the one I still want by my side. My best friend. I will my numb lips to say something. “It’s been eighty-eight days, Katniss.”

 

“Eighty-seven days, sixteen hours and about twelve minutes,” she whispers. “And I’ve missed you every single second of it.”

 

The laugh that escapes me is harsh, broken. “Forgive me if I find that hard to believe,” I say. The desire, the  _ need _ to lash out, to hurt her even a fraction of the way she’s hurt me, it’s overwhelming.

 

Beside me, her head bows. “I've wanted to call, every single day. I've typed a hundred messages but never hit send.” I shake my head at her confession. I sent her dozens of apologies the day after it happened, each call went to voicemail, each text unanswered. How many nights did I sleep with my phone clutched in my hand, praying for it to ring, begging for one measly text? One single word. 

 

“Then why didn't you?”

 

Silence spills between us, deep and profound. Even the fire has stopped crackling and spitting, as if it too is holding its breath. When she finally speaks, I wish she hadn’t. “I was embarrassed,” she whispers. And though I figured as much, figured that my inebriated confession had horrified her completely, it’s still difficult to hear.

 

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, and I am, though it sounds insincere with how tightly I’m clenching my jaw. “I didn’t mean to  _ embarrass _ you.”

 

“Peeta,” she groans, crawling in front of me, impossible to ignore. She reaches for my trembling fists, the first time she’s touched me in nearly three months. There’s a battle in my heart. I want to snatch my hands away, deny her, push her away. But I also want her comfort, her touch. I settle for doing nothing, keeping my hands tightly fisted. She runs her thumbs over the tops of my hands, delicate as a moth’s wings. “It wasn’t you, it’s me,” she starts, but I can’t take it. I can’t hear that line, that line that every girl uses to let a guy down easy.

 

“No, just stop,” I interrupt, pulling my hands away and shuffling backwards. 

 

“Please,” she whimpers, and my head snaps up. A tear streaks down her face. I've known Katniss for twenty-one years and never once have I seen her cry. “I didn't mean it like that. Just listen. You know I'm bad at saying things,” she sniffles. “I regretted leaving before I even made it home. I wanted to make it right, but every day that passed I was more and more ashamed. I was so awful to you.” She's openly crying now, and my own eyes are blurred with tears. “I miss you so much,” she whimpers, and the last of my defences drop. I can’t stand to see her hurting. I tentatively open my arms, and she launches herself into them. 

 

She clings to me, as I do to her, our bodies remembering how to comfort each other, even as our hearts and minds struggle. But the words that I would normally have for her, the things I usually say to soothe her, they just aren’t there.

 

With her arms wrapped around my ribs like a vise my world starts to right itself. I hold her as tightly as I dare, burying my face in her hair, and finally let my own tears fall, for what is likely the first time in my adult life. She tucks her head in the crook of my neck, her soft sobs puff against my throat. We cling, and rock, and cry. “I was so afraid you hated me,” she says, her voice clotted with regret.

 

“I could never hate you, Katniss. You know that.”

 

“I should have called,” she starts, but I cut her off.

 

“I wish you had, the last three months have been the worst of my life. But it’s in the past. We’re here now.” She nods against me, my flannel shirt clenched tightly in her hands. We stay that way on the cement floor, just breathing together, until the fire dies down and cold starts to surround us. “God, I’ve missed you,” I admit. “How did you know I’d be here?”

 

“I didn’t. I just still come here when I’m upset. It’s… it’s comforting here. Even though I screwed everything up, I’ve always felt close to you here. Surrounded by all of our memories.”

 

I shift so I can look down at her lovely face, the strong brow and pert nose I know better than my own; her silvery eyes like mirrors. “I didn’t know,” I say. She shrugs.

 

“You outgrew this place, I get that.” She smiles, reaching up to brush my damp hair off my forehead. “But so many of the best things in my life happened right here. With you.”

 

“Mine too, Katniss. But not just here. Everywhere. You’ve been part of every good thing. I see you everywhere in my life. It’s… it’s been hell, working at the bakery. Seeing you in everything there, but not talking to you. Wondering if we’d ever talk again. Wondering-” I choke, and have to stop. She pulls me back into her, hugging me tightly. It takes several minutes before I can speak again. “Wondering if I’d lost you forever.” It’s barely a whisper.

 

“I was afraid of the same thing,” she says softly. “You’ve always been the one who came after me when I ran away. But not this time.”

 

“I didn’t think you’d want me to, after…” I don’t need to finish the thought. After what I said. After I jeopardized everything by telling you how I felt.  _ Feel _ .

 

“Of course I did. But it wasn’t fair to expect you to chase me.”

 

“God, I wanted to.” How many times had I gone by her building, desperate to catch a glimpse of her but too afraid to knock? 

 

“I was so miserable, Peeta. I drove by the bakery every day. I wanted to be there with you. Helping, like I said I would.”

 

“I set aside a cheese bun for you, every morning,” I admit, and she laughs, a watery sound. 

 

“I knew you would. You've always given me so much.” She pauses. “Everything, really. And I've never been able to pay you back.”

 

“It's not like that, Katniss, and you know it. I’ve never expected anything.” I pause, swallowing back the anger that paints the edges of my words. Because maybe I did, that day. It had been so easy to believe in the possibility then, for that brief bit of time, right before it all came crashing down. Maybe in that moment, I made it seem like I expected her to love me too. But while I'd hoped, I’d always hoped, I accept that she doesn’t share my feelings, however much it’s destroyed me. I need to make her understand that I’ll never pressure her, never push her away for not loving me that way. That I still want, still  _ need _ her friendship. And yeah, it guts me that she doesn’t love me the way I love her, but I’m willing to sacrifice that dream if it means I won't lose her entirely. I can live with her finding love with someone else, as long as she’s in my life. Resignation paints my words. “Being your best friend is enough,” I tell her, and my voice stays mostly even, despite the rock in my throat. “It’s everything to me. Your happiness is everything to me. I just want to be part of your life, to support you. To - to share at least some of it with you. If you’ll allow it.”

 

“I want to share everything with you, always. I always have, Peeta. That hasn’t changed.”

 

I shift back a little and stare at her, shaking my head just slightly in confusion. She announced her engagement, to a man I had no idea even existed, on a cake order form. A goddamned order form! The ball of anger in my gut tightens again. I’ve known her practically my whole life, supported her dreams, and she chose the most passive-aggressive way imaginable to rub in my face my lack of importance in her life. A fucking engagement cake. 

 

My whole body tenses and I have to bite back the urge to lash out again. But I rein it in. This is Katniss, and as much as she’s hurt me, it’s my fault we’re in this situation in the first place, me and my stupid big mouth. I still want her in my life. Need her in my life. 

 

“I just… I thought that when you got engaged I’d be the second person you shared that with, after Prim. So it really fucking hurt when you didn’t even tell me yourself. That - fuck, Katniss.” I can barely squeeze the words out. But we’ve always been honest with each other before, and we need to be now more than ever, to repair the damage we’ve done. To be the friends we should be again. 

 

She pushes back and scowls at me, a full on scary-as-hell Katniss Everdeen scowl. In spite of everything, I have to bite back the start of a grin. She has no idea how much I love that scowl. “What the hell are you talking about, Peeta?”

 

My hands fall limply to my sides in defeat. “The cake order,” I say softly, and when her expression doesn’t change I force myself to continue. “You ordered an engagement cake today, for yourself and someone I didn’t even know existed.”

 

Her face screws up, like she's eaten something distasteful. “I knew that twit wasn't listening,” she grumbles. She reaches for my hand; our fingers entwine automatically. She sighs. “For weeks I've been trying to screw up enough courage to come talk to you. I walked by the bakery a dozen times.” 

 

I smile sadly. “I walked by your office at least that many times,” I admit. Like ships passing in the night. 

 

“Today I finally managed to walk through the door, but you weren't there.”

 

“Bank deposit,” I whisper. She nods. 

 

“Different time each day. I remember.” My heart aches. Of course she remembers. She was there. She's always been there. Until now. “I panicked when you weren’t there,” she continues, so softly. “I wasn’t sure I’d ever have enough nerve to - to try again. So I ordered a cake.” She pauses, holds my gaze firmly, as if imploring me to understand. “A  _ congratulations _ cake. For Prim’s boyfriend.” She looks away, shrugging. “He got a promotion. It was the only thing I could think of that was worth celebrating.”

 

“You're not getting married?” 

 

She frowns. “Did you really think I'd do that? Get engaged to someone you didn't even know, and then order a cake from you for it?”

 

“It's been three months, Katniss. I never imagined you turning your back on me either. I… I don't know what to think.”

 

She sighs and stares at our entwined fingers. When she continues, it's so quiet I have to strain to hear. “I know I fucked up. If I could go back…” I shake my head. 

 

“I'm the one who fucked up.” She scowls, but I push on. “I don't regret telling you,” I clarify. “Because it's true, I've been in love with you so long I can't remember what it's like to not love you.” She's staring into the embers, but still holding my hand. “But I shouldn't have sprung it on you like that. And Katniss?” I wait until she looks at me again; the sadness in her eyes is almost my undoing. “I should have explained. I - I don't expect you to love me that way. As long as I have your friendship, as long as I have you in my life, I can live with that. It - it’ll be enough, always.” She doesn’t say anything, but she squeezes my hand.

 

We sit in silence, watching the last of the embers flicker on the hearth, until finally she stands and adds another log. There’s a tension in her body, an indecision. I wonder if she’s contemplating running again. I’m not sure my bruised heart could take it.

 

But she doesn’t run. Instead she turns to me and squares her shoulders. When she speaks, her voice is quiet, but firm. “I've never wanted to get married, you know that. But if I did I… well, I hope you'd be the first to know.” There's a pleading in her eyes. Begging me to understand. But I just stare at her, uncomprehending. “I… I hoped.” She sighs, and moves to kneel in front of me. “I hoped you’d be the one asking.”

 

My traitorous heart pounds in my chest, but it’s too much, too easy. I close my eyes tightly. “Please,” I whisper. “Please don’t. I - I don’t want your pity. I just want our friendship. I want what’s real.”

 

“Peeta,” she groans. “Please look at me.” I’m powerless to resist, I always have been. I’d do anything she asked of me. But when I do I'm transfixed by the pleading in her mercury eyes. “You know me,” she says. “You know I’d never lie to you.” More than that, I know she’s incapable of lying to me. Her eyes are still reddened, her cheeks tear-stained. But her expression is clear and open, guileless. 

 

“I don't… I don't understand.”

 

“It’s always been you, for years. Forever, really. I just couldn't admit it.”

 

“You ran.” My thoughts are a complete mess, but it’s the one thing that stands out. “You ran away, Katniss. You haven’t spoken to me for three fucking months. How… how can you say that to me now. After that?” My voice breaks, and I stand, walking to one of the drafty windows, staring vacantly at the darkness outside. At her reflection as she walks up behind me.

 

“I panicked.” I drop my head to the icy glass at her words.  _ Panicked _ . We’ve been best friends nearly our entire lives, grew up together. Know each other better, maybe, than we know ourselves. But I can’t for the life of me understand this. I could understand her bolting because she was horrified that I had feelings she didn’t reciprocate. But this? This makes no sense. 

 

I can hear her moving around behind me, stoking the fire, fiddling with the flint. But I can’t look at her. I can’t reconcile what she’s saying to me with the pain in my gut, in my very soul. “Why?” I ask, the word crystallizing on the window.

 

It takes awhile before she answers. But I wait. “It was easier,” she starts, “When I thought you only saw me as a friend. Easier to love you and never have to worry about there being repercussions to that.” Despite myself, my lips quirk up a little. She could be reading my own heart right now. But the smirk fades away as I think about the absolute agony I've been living with for months. She destroyed me, dropped our twenty-year friendship, ignored my every attempt to make things right. Nothing about any of that speaks to love. Nothing about any of this makes sense. I feel betrayed, and by the one person I have always trusted wholeheartedly. The anger coiling in my belly frightens me a little.

 

“I need to go,” I say, more sharply than I intend. 

 

“You’re running away from me?” she asks, incredulous. I think we both hear the hypocrisy. That I’m doing what she did to me. And that she’s calling me on it despite it being her go-to mechanism for handling conflict herself. I shake my head.

 

“I just need some time, Katniss. Please?” I can’t look at her; I know if I do I’ll cave, or I’ll punch something. But there’s too much going on in my head and in my heart, I just can’t stay. Not this time. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I murmur as I leave, a reflex from a time when I really did see her every day.

 

I slip out into the darkness and don’t look back.

 

I should go home, but instead find myself back in the bakery office, staring at the cake order. If I twist it and squint I can sort of make out  _ congratulations _ . Evidently, they don’t teach penmanship in school anymore. Tracing again the lines of Katniss’s signature, I try to imagine her mindset, armed as I am now with the knowledge that this wasn’t some bullshit move designed to hurt me.

 

Instead, it was a knee-jerk attempt to communicate by a woman who just sucks at communicating. 

 

The most frustrating person I've ever met. 

 

The most loyal, beautiful, compassionate, infuriating person I’ve ever known.

 

The most important person in my life. 

 

_ Fuck _ .

 

Both the flavour and decoration sections of the form are blank, but that doesn't matter. I know what Katniss likes. I know _ Katniss _ .

 

Though I have no idea if she'll actually come back to pick it up, I find myself mixing ingredients for the dark chocolate chiffon cake I make her every year for her birthday. And while it bakes, I pipe white petals, crafting katniss flowers mindlessly. I've made so many over the years I can do it on autopilot. And clearly I do, since by the time I’ve finished covering Katniss’s cake in blossoms, there are still more than seventy quirky white flowers on my prep table. 

 

I guess I'll be offering katniss flower cupcakes to my customers tomorrow. 

 

Won't be the first time. 

 

It's too late to go home, my four a.m. start time only a handful of hours away. And I'm not sure I trust myself to drive anyway. Instead, I curl up on the couch in my office. 

 

Though I'm utterly exhausted, sleep doesn't come easily. My mind is filled with images from the cabin; seeing her, holding her, the elation and pain. Her confession runs through my head, mingling with the agony of my own confession and the three months of self-loathing that followed, warping and reforming until I have no idea what's real. 

 

When my phone alarm sounds, I've slept no more than an hour. I splash a little cold water on my face, pull on the clean shirt I keep here in case of frosting mishaps, and get to work. 

 

Days like today I'm profoundly grateful for the lifetime of bakery experience that means I can do morning prep with my eyes closed. I have very little in the way of mental acuity this morning. For once, I'm actually looking forward to Clove’s arrival at ten. 

 

Which is why when the phone rings at nine-thirty, I know exactly what to expect.  _ She can't come in. She didn't sleep well _ . 

 

Yeah, kid. I know how that feels. 

 

I haven't been in business long enough to have a pool of emergency back ups, but it's Sunday, a traditionally quiet day. I'll be fine. 

 

Or not. 

 

I don’t know if it’s the appearance of Christmas lights in the shop windows, or the shift in the weather, but the downtown is flooded with shoppers. And shopping is, apparently, hungry work.

 

The crush of people wanting to buy coffee and pastries, or sandwiches for lunch, is overwhelming. I’m grateful, truly I am. Crowds mean profit. But I’m utterly exhausted, a bad night - no, a bad three months - have left me struggling. I try to get things in and out of the oven, even while serving the hungry throng and running the register. And the line is never ending.

 

I’m not sure what alerts me to her presence, I guess it’s the same sixth sense I’ve always had when it comes to Katniss. I meet her eyes briefly over the crowd, silver pools I’ve always found so easy to lose myself in. But there’s no time now. So I glance away. 

 

The half-door at the end of the counter swings on its hinges, and I catch a flash of black braid disappearing into the kitchen. Before I can even begin to guess what’s happening, Katniss is beside me, drying her hands on an apron. Without so much as a nod in my direction, she starts helping the next person in line.

 

It’s so much easier with two of us, the queue is rapidly brought under control. Katniss and I only speak when necessary, when she asks me a price or when I let her know I’m running back to the kitchen for more baked goods. But every now and again she’ll flash me a shy smile. And each one is a gift.

 

I’d nearly forgotten what a good team we are. In spite of everything, in spite of the exhaustion and confusion, in spite of all of the pain, having her by my side feels incredible. Right. And whatever last bit of anger I’ve been holding onto drains away. She’s worth fighting for, my Katniss. We are worth fighting for, in whatever capacity we can manage.

 

The lunchtime rush doesn’t slow until about an hour before closing, and I’m completely torn. The kitchen is trashed and I need to start on tomorrow’s prep - I’m a couple of hours behind already. But I can’t continue to take advantage of Katniss. As if she’s read my mind, she turns. “I’m going to wipe down the tables and keep an eye on the counter. You finish what you need to in the kitchen.”

 

“Katniss,” I start, but she shakes her head.

 

“I’ll be fine out here. Go,” she says simply, then turns back to cleaning. 

 

Muscle memory alone powers me through the cleanup and prep for tomorrow, I’m too exhausted to think about the beautiful enigma in my front shop, too bewildered to worry about the future. Occasionally, I hear the chimes over the door or voices carrying back. But mostly, I’m just a blank.

 

I don’t notice the passage of time, but when Katniss steps back into the kitchen on nearly silent feet I’m not surprised to see that it’s past four. “I locked the front door and flipped the sign,” she says softly.

 

I slump against the prep table and meet her eyes. They’re wary, but soft with affection. “Katniss, I...” I intend to thank her, to tell her how incredible she is and how grateful I am. But she walks into my arms, clutching me tightly, and the words die on my tongue.

 

For a few long minutes, we merely cling. I’m surrounded by her - the softness of her hair under my chin, the warm puffs of breath against my collar. I’m home. 

 

“Your, uh. Your cake is ready.” It’s the stupidest thing to say, but I’m at a loss, unwilling to rehash everything we said at the cabin, unable to resort to senseless small talk. Stalemate. She pulls away from me, shaking her head, a little smile playing on her lips.

 

“Well then,” she says, eyes twinkling. “Let’s eat it.”

 

Katniss knows the bakery as well as I do and has pulled out plates and forks before I can even make myself head back to the walk-in cooler. When I return with the box, her smile widens. She takes my free hand and leads me to the office, checking the ovens along the way to ensure they’re off.

 

She plunks herself down on the sofa with a tired groan, plates clattering on her lap. I pause uncertainly, but she tugs my hand, making the decision for me, and I gingerly lower myself to sit next to her.

 

And just like that, we’re where we were three months ago - side by side on my little office couch.

 

I hold the cake box between us, gesturing for her to open it, and she gasps when she pushes back the lid. “Oh Peeta,” she breathes. “This is almost too pretty to eat!” I laugh, because nothing is ever actually too pretty for Katniss to eat. Her appetite - and her love of chocolate - is legendary. She pulls one of the katniss flowers from the side, wrapping her perfect peach lips around the sugar blossom to suck off the chocolate frosting. I stand and busy myself removing the cake from the box, setting it on my desk and cutting into it, so that I can minimize my body’s response to her innocent sampling. Apparently, not all of me is completely worn out.

 

With a thick slab of cake on each plate, we sit side by side in comfortable silence. She hums contentedly as she enjoys her treat. And though I'm not much for sweets, I eat some cake too, the first food I've put in my system since just after dawn. It helps restore a little of my energy. That, and having my best friend beside me again. Finally, I disrupt the quiet between us.

 

“Thank you for today,” I tell her sincerely. “I wouldn’t have made it through without you.” She smiles.

 

“You’d have found a way,” she deflects. “But I’m glad I was here. Where’s your front shop twit?” I shrug. Clove’s a problem for another day. I’m too tired and overwhelmed to even think about her. Besides, the silver-eyed puzzle beside me is a much worthier use of what few brain cells I still possess. “We need to find you more reliable help.” Her half-smile falls at the word  _ reliable _ , and suddenly I know she’s not thinking about Clove anymore either. She sighs, and sets aside her now empty plate. “Can we talk?” she asks, finally. I can’t say no. I can never say no to Katniss. And I don’t want to.

 

“I shouldn’t have left yesterday,” I tell her. The woman I’ve loved practically my whole life told me - or hinted anyway - that she loved me, and I reacted by running, by using my anger and hurt as a weapon against her. How can I really be upset with her for having done the same thing to me? “I was acting all wounded, and it was a dick move.”

 

“I shouldn’t have run the first time,” she says, again. “It was inexcusable, the way I turned my back on you, on us.” She takes a deep breath, regret filling the quiet between us. “I don’t blame you for leaving yesterday, I deserved it, and I wouldn’t blame you if you never want to talk to me again. But I hope you can forgive me, someday. I really miss you, Peeta.”

 

I resist the urge to roll my eyes because of course I want to talk to her, every minute of every day. And honestly, I had forgiven her even before I made it out of the woods last night. “I guess I just don’t understand,” I start, quietly. “Why you thought ditching me entirely was preferable to there maybe being something more than friendship between us.” I’m not a jerk, and while I haven’t dated a ton of women I’ve always been a good boyfriend, I think. If she’d changed her mind, if things hadn’t worked out, I’d still have stuck with her, still been whatever she needed me to be. She has to know that.

 

“I was scared.” It’s not the first time she’s said it, but I still don’t understand why. 

 

“Of me?” Even I can hear how incredulous I sound.

 

She sighs and stands, pacing the six steps in front of the couch from office wall to office wall. I simply watch. Eventually, she stills, leaning her forehead against the far wall. “Of love,” she says, finally, so quietly I can barely make out her words. “After my dad died, and my mother fell apart...” She whispers, and it feels like a slap. I was there, with her, when she lost her parents, one to death, one to a depression so deep that she never really recovered. I know how much hurt she still carries, how it has painted her entire life. Her voice is tight, I can hear how hard she’s struggling to stay in control of herself. “I can’t afford the kind of love that leads to marriage and children, Peeta. I, well. I guess I thought it would be better for you to hate me now than later.”

 

I groan and walk directly to her, turning her to face me and wrapping my arms around her. She doesn’t resist, leaning into me, sighing as she nuzzles my chest. “That’s stupid,” I mumble into her hair. “First, because I’ll never hate you, Katniss. I never could. And second, because I would never pressure you into any of that.” I pull away, enough for her to see my expression. To understand my words. “I want you in my life, Katniss. However I can have you. 

 

“I know that. I do.” She sighs. “And it was stupid of me anyway. Because being apart sucked, Peeta. It made me realize that I can’t do this without you. Or maybe I could. But I don’t want to.” She lays her head back on my chest; I’m sure she can hear my pounding heart. I know better than to read anything into her words. I know I should simply be grateful that she’s back in my life. And I am. But I love her, I always have. And the idea that she loves me too… I can’t help wondering what’s really holding us back, now that everything is out in the open. Wondering what she would do if I simply kissed her, like I’ve spent half my life longing to do.

 

As if she can read my mind, she lifts her face to me, eyes wide and searching. My hands, which had been tracing soothing tracks up and down her spine, stop, then slide down to rest, trembling, on her hips. We stand on the precipice. I know I can kiss her forehead now and back away, and we’ll both laugh and go on being friends. Or, I can take the chance I’ve been too chicken shit to consider for so many years.

 

I’m done being afraid. 

 

I know Katniss, I know how skittish and fearful she can be. But she's worth fighting for. We are worth fighting for. 

 

I take a deep breath. “After everything we've been through, don't you think we deserve a chance, Katniss?”

 

Her hands slide up my chest, ghost along the pulse leaping in my neck to cup my face, stroking the two days of stubble I'm sporting. I have to fight to keep my eyes from slipping shut at how good it feels. But I'm glad I do, because the look she's giving me is the one I see in my dreams. “Yes,” she murmurs. 

 

“If I kiss you now, will you run?” I whisper. “Because I don’t think I could survive losing you again.”

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” she says.

 

I've fantasized about kissing Katniss a thousand times, but never once did I imagine she'd be the one stretching up on her toes to kiss me. The whimper that escapes me at the first touch of her soft lips would be embarrassing if I could register anything other than  _ finally _ .

 

It's everything I've ever dreamed of, but better. 

 

Because it's real. 


End file.
